Also: How shirtless is the local running community? How often does the Italian family who lives next door use an entire head of garlic to make marinara sauce for breakfast? Do the tenants who live directly above your prospective unit own an elephant or other large elephant-like animal with diabetes, causing it to roam across the hardwood floors multiple times a night to relieve its diseased elephant-sized bladder? And perhaps most important, what size towel do the neighborhood bachelors use to wrap themselves post-shower, and how thin are their bedroom curtains?

Armed with the right questions, I tried at first to find an apartment on my own. If I was gonna strike out on my own, I figured, I should really go for it. Brokers, after all, are a sleazy breed of human who don’t give a shit whether you live or die. They’ll gladly sell your dream apartment to the couple waiting behind you with their IKEA bed frame at the ready, prepared to swoop in and claim the room you planned to masturbate in for their own perverted pursuits, like having sex with each other at the same time. Like monsters.

But you realize how quickly and drastically you’re willing to drop your standards when you try anything on your own. Poring through Craigslist, I found only one listing in my price range, albeit one I found virtually impossible to refuse. It was a luxury downtown loft, furnished to perfection, and completely free. The only catch: in exchange for free room and board, the man listing the apartment demanded to spoon-feed his tenant three meals per day.

“Look,” I told my parents, “it’s got exposed brick walls, stainless steel appliances, a Whirlpool bathroom, and it’s all for free. And it comes with three meals every single day, and I won’t even have to feed myself. I’ll never have to worry about going hungry again.”

But that day, some guy got killed by some other guy because they met on Craigslist, or something equally violent and tragic, and of course, that was the one night my parents decided to watch the news. And then suddenly everyone on Craigslist offering a free apartment in exchange for spoon-feeding their tenant three meals a day must be a killer.

I tried telling them everyone in New York City is a potential murderer. I mean, that’s sort of this city’s deal. Lindsey probably tried killing me in my sleep plenty of times, and I survived living with her for three whole years. What’s a guy with a spoon fetish gonna do? Feed me to death?

But I was forced to relent. I abandoned both my hopes for a generous apartment sugar daddy and the prospect of successfully finding an apartment alone.